Archive for the ‘ebooks’ Category

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The Ascension of Isaiah Again

May 27, 2019
Found only here, the Revelation of Gabriel. retold…
spheres
1 The great angel Gabriel diminished his splendor so that he may
descend the spheres. 2 Absent the glory granted him from our Creator
Jehovah, Gabriel came to a righteous man named Isaiah. 3 Gabriel
said to Isaiah, “Come with me.” 4 “The Lord, our God, wishes
upon you such revelations unknowable to mankind.” 5 “I will show
you both wondrous and terrible things.” 6 Gabriel then said to
Isaiah, “You must first ascend Zion.”
7 Isaiah trembled for he who knew this angel in the guise of a man.
8 Isaiah tells the angel Gabriel, “I cannot for I am old and I will
perish.” 8 Gabriel says to him, “You will be preserved.” 9 “I
will walk with you and raise you up through the heavens.” 10 “The
Lord, our God wishes so and such is His command.” 11 Isaiah then
goes with Gabriel without recourse against divine edict. 12 Both
depart with haste into the night and without even a shining crescent
in the first sphere of heaven.
13 On the dark path toward the far mountain, Isaiah asks Gabriel,
“Even in your wonder, how may I suffer at the Throne of God?” 14
Gabriel says to him, “See how your steps cross miles in a single
breath.” 15 “Feel your still heart though you climb higher than
any rooftop lofted by the hands of men.” 16 “You are preserved by
His grace and made safe in my own aura.” 16 Gabriel tells Isaiah
one more thing. 17 “And know this, our Lord is not in His Throne on
this Earth.”
18 Gabriel reveals to Isaiah, “All manner of men and demons in time
rule what was and is to become the kingdom of Jeshuah, the only born
son of our Lord.” 19 “His Creation had been abandoned by our Lord
in a great struggle at the Fall of Eve and Adam.” 20 “For our
Lord disgusts all things that are not pure.”
21 Renewed in fear, Isaiah protests. 22 “Who now is the Lord of
Earth?” 23 “Who has command of men and beasts and all things
angelic in this sphere?”
24 Gabriel tells Isaiah, “Each are called Satan.” 25 “And each
rule only so long as they counsel our Lord upon earthly affairs.”
26 “Our Lord allows each king to rule for a time before they are
cast into Sheol, whence they join the ranks of the fallen angel named
Lucifer.” 27 “At the end of this Age, all will go cast into the
bottomless pit of Tarterus.”
28 Upon the summit of Zion, Gabriel reveals to Isaiah, “See, there
is no Throne, another king has been deposed.” 29 “At this moment
arranged by our Lord, there is no Satan and thus you, Isaiah, you are
allowed passage into the Sphere of Crescents.” 30 “Come with me,
quickly, for this moment will pass.”
31 Isaiah takes Gabriel’s hand and holds on days numbering forty
times forty. 32 Both ascend into the air and into the Sphere of
Crescents wherein Gabriel glows from within. 33 Light shines through
his earthly robe as the angel reclaims a potion of his forsaken
splendor. 34 The body of Gabriel illuminates space the same as
constellations beyond the highest Spheres. 35 Gabriel tells Isaiah,
“It is in Heaven as it is on Earth,”
36 “This Sphere of Crescents is ruled by many demons, who will in
time also be cast into the Pit.” 37 “At present in this Age of
strife, each bicker with each other and govern in cycles.” 38
“There is Thoth and Sen and Ashtaroth and Aku and Nannar and two
more kings who are without names; for their hold upon the Throne is
unsure.” 39 “Mankind knows them all by the phases of the moon,
the second Throne of our Lord, Jehovah.”
40 Afraid because of sights he has never seen, Isaiah begs his
heavenly escort, “What are these flying beasts of many shapes, who
limbs and faces belong on men and the beasts on Earth?” 41 “What
are these shapes like wheels and wagons with many eyes and myriad
wings?” 42 Gabriel tells Isaiah, “Unlike myself, they are angels
of the lowest and middle orders – they are the seraphim and the
cherubim and some are the dominions, and fewer are called thrones.”
43 “A third among this host were cast into Sheol with Lucifer.”
44 “Some have returned to this sphere because the war for Heaven
and Earth persists.” 45 “We shall not linger.”
46 Gabriel then takes Isaiah to ground where the air is hot and all
life has perished. 47 Warring angels and demons above bring down a
searing wind that batters an invisible shield Gabriel holds up to
protect the mortal prophet Isaiah. 48 Gabriel tells him, “Here is
the Sphere of Mercury.” 49 “We will neither linger in the place
for it is ruled by the demon Baal Zebuub, who takes the shape of the
strange beasts you have now seen.” 50 The arch angel now blazes
then rushes Isaiah past the chaos of battle and through an untended
gate of basalt of iron.
51 Gabriel says to Isaiah, “Here is the Sphere of Venus.” 52 This
empty land also lacks sight of battle, but noises from the war in
Heaven drifts over the sands. 53 Shining brighter than a mortal
might ever gaze upon, Gabriel tells Isaiah, “The fallen arch angel
Beliel, the one created after Lucifer, he is here the king.” 54
“Beliel follows the usurper, but he has been merciful to me and my
brothers who yet serve our Lord.” 55 “Jehovah has allowed him
some peace in this waste, but Beliel too will be cast into the Pit at
the end of this Age.”
56 Isaiah wonders aloud, “Is the king of this sphere of heaven also
a contorted beast as the one before?” 57 “No,” Gabriel said.
“Like Lucifer, Beliel was made perfect, but not as perfect as
Lucifer.” 58 “Nevertheless, Beliel was made beautiful and he
became the model for Eve.” 59 Gabriel paused and gazes into an
enormous sun as if he searches for someone. 60 He then states, “Both
were made greater than myself and Raphael and Uriel and Michael.”
61 “We shall depart.”
62 Gabriel again beckons Isaiah to take hold of his hand before both
ascend once more into a tumultuous sky. 63 They pass an infernal war
and through an untended gate of fire, where after Gabriel appears
alight with flame. 64 The great angel comforts the mortal man with
his words. 65 “Lo, my brilliance is restored after every passage
closer to our Lord.” 66 “But know this gulf between the Sphere of
Venus and the Sphere of Sol is greater than that between Creation and
the Sphere of Crescents.” 67 “Mortal beings might perish crossing
this gulf, for it was once as impassable as the gulf between the
Earth and Sheol.” 68 “Yet demons have now traversed both, and
this is the path we take, Isaiah, and you shall be preserved.”
69 Indeed, the journey measures forty times forty years and still
Isaiah does not thirst nor hunger. 70 Nor did Isaiah sleep and he did
not age. 71 Nor did Isaiah become restored for he remained elderly
and nearly lame. 72 This journey taxed his brain and he grew weary.
73 Still, the angel Gabriel cautioned the man.
74 “The demon Zagan, the fiend who appears as a dark bull with the
enormous wings of a griffin and who is a king of kings, apart from
all the others fallen into Sheol, he is here.” 75 “ Zagan
persists with his legions in a stronghold the angelic host of our
Lord Jehovah may forever siege.” 76 “Do not speak to anyone.”
77 “And turn away from the gaze of all those you look upon you.”
77 “For the scouts and spies of Zagan are all about.” 78 “They
seek the gate to the Sphere of Mars.” 79 “As do his assassins and
mercenaries newly tempted away from the armies of our Lord.”
80 Arrived into the Sphere of Sol, Isaiah nevertheless could not gaze
upon a thing. 81 Here, the whole was a white radiance that burned
through his clamped eyes. 82 The Sphere of Sol shone brighter than
his companion angel, Gabriel, whom Isaiah might now only look upon
through his squint. 84 Gabriel led Isaiah by his hand and neither
dare let go of the other.
83 The Sphere of Sol did not echo with war as do the lower spheres
between here and Earth. 84 Instead, Isaiah heard a wondrous chorus of
far off angels whom he could not look upon even if they were near. 85
There were no instruments. 86 The voices of angels came carried upon
a sweet chant as a soothing wind blown through distant and enormous
horns.
87 “Who is this impure being who seeks entry into spheres in which
only the highest order of angels might travel?” 88 Isaiah had heard
this inquiry come from a pleasant voice that at once was menacing. 89
He nonetheless complies with the command Gabriel had given him and
Isaiah would not answer. 90 Neither did Isaiah look upon the
anonymous inquirer who possessed this pleasing throat. 91 Gabriel
answers for both petitioners at the gate into the Sphere of Mars.
92 “This is the righteous man, Isaiah, whom our Lord Jehovah has
summoned to His highest Throne on the Sphere of Saturn.” 93 “I am
Gabriel, whom you know, and I am the escort and protector of this
mortal being yet in his corrupt flesh.”
94 “Why is Isaiah in this foul adornment,” asked the gate keeper.
95 “How is it he has come so far past the hordes of Hell who would
tear apart his earthly body and waste his pure soul?” 96 Gabriel
answers, “Such is the command of our Lord.” 97 “You know this.”
98 “You know all things as keeper of this gate, lest this gate too
would have fallen, as all the others before.” 99 “Aye,”
answered the nameless and faceless keeper. 100 Isaiah is then taken
into darkness.
101 Blind behind his shut eyes, Isaiah could still see the splendor
of Gabriel. 102 For the angel flared and now shone greater than the
Sphere of Sol. 103 Isaiah releases the hand of the burning angel and
cries out, “I cannot bear the scorch of your touch!” 104 “You
are hotter than a branding iron in fire!”
105 Gabriel tells Isaiah, “I yet hold onto you, though you are now
marked by my hand.” 106 “Do not fear for here are only the
principalities, whom only my brothers and I are greater.” 107
“These angels remain loyal to our Lord Jehovah, for any corrupt
would have already perished in Sheol.” 108 “The principalities
attend an empty Throne upon this sphere and another above on the
Sphere of Jupiter.”
109 His eyes yet closed, Isaiah asks his heavenly guide, “Why are
these thrones empty?” 110 Gabriel tells him, “None of the Thrones
are truly empty, nor truly captured from our Lord.” 111 “All are
in yet possession of our omnipotent Creator.” 112 “He merely
permits any who would suppose to be king for as long as this Age.”
113 Isaiah asks the angel, “There are no kings in the Sphere of
Mars nor the Sphere of Jupiter?” 114 Gabriel tells the mortal,
“Jeshuah, the only begotten son of Jehovah, would sit on the throne
above.” 115 “But He is absent upon a quest our Lord has commanded
of Him.” 116 “This great news is what our Lord seeks to reveal to
you.” 117 “I can tell you no more of this.”
118 “And no other but our Lord claims the Throne here on the Sphere
of Mars,” Isaiah wondered unknowing and blind. 119 The angel
Gabriel tells him, “Open your eyes.”
120 Isaiah does open his eyes, blinks, and he sees his Earth, but the
land is empty of beasts and men. 121 The sky and fields of grain are
red. 122 He sees glowing vapors move across the land and carry the
smell of sulfur. 123 Gabriel tells Isaiah, “There are also the
powers and virtues, but these angels have no interest in ruling these
Spheres.” 124 “See the powers as these roaming clouds.” 125 “If
you spot flashes of light, these are the virtues.” 126 “These
angels have no will of their own and only that of our Lord.” 127
“He is conscious in them and aware of our presence.”
128 Unable to bear the splendor of Gabriel, Isaiah yet and again asks
the angel, “And who would sit upon the Throne on this Sphere?”
129 Gabriel is reluctant to tell Isaiah, but the Lord Jehovah does
not stop his tongue. 130 Gabriel reveals, “Asherah, the single wife
of our Lord Jehovah.” 131 “As heaven as on earth, she birthed
Jeshuah, His only Son.” 132 “All others in the Heavens and also
the fallen in Sheol were made by the Hands of our Creator.”
133 “Where is Asherah,” Isaiah wondered. 134 “Is She not with
Jehovah, our Creator and Lord?” 135 Gabriel is forthright and
reveals, “Asherah had been tempted by Lucifer.” 136 “The mother
of the true Son of our Lord betrayed them both, and She was cast into
Sheol.” 137 “Despite Her confession and any penance, She is
doomed to join Lucifer and all his demons once more in Tarterus at
the end of this Age.”
138 Uncharacteristic of Gabriel, the angel tells Isaiah, “Come, I
fear I said too much.” 139 “Do not reveal this apocrypha when you
are returned to Earth.” 140 “Though your days are shortened once
you have been taken into the Heavens, only teach to others that
knowledge our Lord, Jehovah directly reveals to you.” 141 “The
knowledge of the Spheres is common and all are aware of the Eternal
War, but keep this last secret.”
142 The burning angel Gabriel takes Isaiah to the border of the
Sphere of Mars and to the gate of the Sphere of Jupiter. 143 Isaiah
could no longer withstand the sight of the angel nor bear his touch,
but the mortal being held open his own eyes. 144 Isaiah saw all
things familiar to him tinted red and he saw the silver gate
reflecting the sublime hue of blood. 145 The only being he saw in
this Sphere and at this Gate was another angel aflame. 146 The sight
brought him fear once more, for this angel, though not nearly as
bright as his escort, this angel possessed four faces and six wings
of all colors. 147 Isaiah turns away and he does not speak.
148 Gabriel shouts surprise at this other fearsome angel. 149 “How
is it that a seraphim tends this gate?” 150 The angel replies to
Gabriel, “I know you, Gabriel. I know this righteous man you bring
to the Throne on the Sphere of Saturn.” 151 “The war for the
Heavens and for the Earth has decimated the forces on both sides and
half now fall forever into the bottomless pit.”
152 “And are you yet loyal to our Lord, Jehovah,” Gabriel
interrogated, for no truth is hidden to the arch angels. 153
“Forever,” affirmed the seraphim. 154 “For the mighty Jeshuah
has deposed Lucifer in Sheol.” 155 “The Son of our Lord returns
even now.” 156 “He is on His path back to the Heavens.”
157 “Oh, this is joyous news,” Gabriel exclaimed. 158 “Tell me,
will our Lord Jehovah yet counsel this righteous man?” 159 “Aye,”
the seraphim replied. 160 “For this man, Isaiah, must to know what
will soon come.” 161 “This righteous man must spread the news on
Earth before the Son ascends from Sheol.”
162 “All, then, is well,” Gabriel sighed. 163 The seraphim tells
both Gabriel and Isaiah, “Do not loiter, for His coming is soon.”
164 “And know, another righteous man tends the Gate to the Sphere
of Jupiter.” 165 “As I have said, the angelic host has lost
many.” 166 “Our Lord replenishes His host with the righteous, for
this was His Plan.” 167 “Our Lord, Jehovah, foresaw catastrophe
and this was the Purpose He created mortal beings.” 168 “All this
has now been revealed.” 169 “You, Gabriel, will know this
righteous man.”
170 “Glory to Him and His Son and all who are righteous,” Gabriel
shouted. 171 The voice of the great angel deafened Isaiah. 172 The
seraphim who tends the Gate to the Sphere of Jupiter then asks the
greater angel, “Tell me, for I do not know, did our Lord permit you
to reveal Asherah to this mortal?”
173 Gabriel confesses, “Nay, but He did not stop my tongue.” 174
“And He will know already what I have done, for His principalities
are all around.” 175 “The angels will have revealed my
indiscretion to our Lord.” 176 “If there are consequences, I go
now and face any and all.” 177 “Fare well, brother,” the
seraphim wished for Gabriel. 178 Gabriel and Isaiah then pass through
the Gate from the Sphere of Mars and into the Sphere of Jupiter.
179 Although Isaiah could not look upon the angel Gabriel, nor touch
his burning hand, the mortal being felt the splendor of the Heavens
manifest through his escort. 180 The grandeur overwhelms Gabriel, and
past the silver gate, the man falls onto his knees. 181 Isaiah sobs
with joy, “Oh, my Lord!”
182 “Nay,” Gabriel told Isaiah. 183 “I am not your Lord.” 184
“You perceive His eminence manifest in me.” 185 “For His Power
grows greater as we go nearer to Him.” 186 “Rise up, for we make
haste toward the last gate.” 187 “This will bring us into the
Sphere of Saturn.”
188 Meanwhile, this Sphere of Jupiter was unlike all the others. 189
For this sphere contained the Throne of the conquering king Jeshuah.
190 The sky was as a ceiling of white limestone. 191 Trees were as
stone columns rose to hold up the roof of the Heavens. 192 The sweet
chant Isaiah had heard all the distance down to the Sphere of Sol had
come from this place. 193 The angelic singers were yet hidden, for
these were the virtues. 194 Now, the sound they made were too
pleasant to hear. 195 Isaiah cupped his hands over his ears and he
sobbed more.
196 “Do not weep now, mortal,” Gabriel pleaded of Isaiah.” 197
“For His majesty is great.” 198 “And His power doubled now that
His Son returns to magnificence.” 199 “You are near Him, but you
will come next to our Lord.”
200 “Tell me, great angel,” Isaiah bid Gabriel. 201 “Is this
now the end of the Age?” 202 “How has the Earth changed?” 203
“Does nothing remain of all I have known?”
204 “Nothing remains,” Gabriel admitted. 205 “But the Earth
will be renewed once the victorious Jeshuah casts down the Satan and
He roots out all the demons from the Heavens.” 206 “You, Isaiah,
will be returned to Earth and witness such.” 207 “You will
announce the Good News and proclaim His Eminence.” 208 “The faith
of Creation will be renewed and made eternal.”
209 The angel Gabriel brings Isaiah to a door made of gold and which
stood higher and wider than Zion; where once stood the Throne of the
Lord on the Earth. 210 The righteous man named Peter tends this last
Gate, as this was the way to the last Throne upon the Sphere of
Saturn. 211 The keeper of this gate, the righteous man named Peter,
announces, “Welcome to the Glory, Gabriel.” 212 “You have been
dearly missed.” 213 “And you are expected.” 214 Peter then
speaks to Isaiah.
215 “I know you, Isaiah, for you are the prophet that had come
before me.” 216 “And you will become the prophet returned long
after all the righteous of Earth are made saints in the Heavens.”
217 “Prepare yourself, for now you go before our Lord.” 218
“Enter and Rejoice.”
219 Isaiah said nothing, nor raised his head. 220 Knowing he was to
become the Herald of the Son of the Lord, Isaiah entered through the
Gate into the Sphere of Saturn. 221 Isaiah goes forth alone, for he
was not to know the fate of the great angel Gabriel.”
222 The Sphere of Saturn is cold and frozen, for the fire of Gabriel
was no longer beside Isaiah. 223 Yet a warmth from ahead of the
mortal man bid him to move forward. 224 Isaiah was no longer inside
immense rooms, but once again outside and in a separate world. 225
This world was of glass. 226 And although Isaiah was loathe to touch
even the flowering vines that grew up absent walls and missing trees,
he found all was hard like stone. 227 And, too, the blades of grass
Isaiah trod upon did not bend. 228 But those blades did not pierce
his sandals, for Isaiah found himself unshod. 229 And though he had
become naked from toe to brow, he was unashamed and unharmed.
230 The Lord Jehovah towered over the mortal man and He, too, was
nude. 231 And so Isaiah would not look upon the Lord. 232 Humbled
next to His immensity, Isaiah felt all his body submerged in a warm
bath. 233 The Lord Jehovah then spoke to him. 234 His voice came as
thunder. 235 “Lo, Isaiah, I created man and also the greatest of my
angels in my image.” 236 “Nevertheless, even Moses feared to see
ourselves.” 237 “My audience with you shall be the same as with
him.” 238 “I will turn my backside to you.” 239 “And if you
do glimpse my presence, even unwarranted, you will only see what you
never look upon.” 240 “Such is my Grace.”
241 Isaiah yet feared to speak. 242 And so, he lay himself prostrate
upon the frozen ground. 243 A warm and pleasing musk from the Lord
preserved him. 244 And turned away from Isaiah, the words of the Lord
came to him as a rumble of stones. 245 This sound was yet more
pleasant than all the songs in the Heavens.
246 The Lord Jehovah mentions to Isaiah, “My angels have revealed
to you that Lucifer has been dethroned.” 247 “There is no more
king in Sheol.” 248 “And I, Myself, and not my Son, now casts
captured and surrendered demons into the endless pit of Tarterus.”
249 “My Son, Jeshuah, has delivered all to Me from below the
impassable gulf of death and He now rises to Earth.” 250 “There,
He will deliver to Me all those who are evil and who will be sent to
My Judgment.”
251 Isaiah becomes brave to speak, but only out of necessity. 252
“How is all this possible, my Lord?” 253 “For I am to deliver
this Good News, and there will be those who doubt.” 254 “My Lord,
are we to know anything?”
255 “Yes,” answered the Lord Jehovah. 256 “Nothing is now
secret.” 257 “Although, there will be no revelation of Asherah,
nor of My Shame because what has come to pass due to My once Wife.”
258 “You, Isaiah, you will speak of how Satan abandoned the Earth
to sit upon the Throne in the Sphere of Crescents.” 259 “But you
will not mention that is was Asherah who elevated this ingrate.”
260 “Your evidence is the moon will now permanently be drenched in
blood without change, for this is in discreet homage to Her.” 261
And there will be no more supposed kings in the Sphere of Crescents.”
262 “The moon will never change.”
263 The Lord Jehovah also tells Isaiah, “You will reveal there is
where Satan crucified My Son because the demon sought to consume His
purity, for demons possess none of their own.” 264 “Although,
Satan did not know Jeshuah, because, like Gabriel, My Son diminished
His splendor so that He may descend the Spheres without recognition.”
265 “And so that He may be killed, so that Jeshuah could breach the
gulf between Earth and Sheol then resume his magnificence.” 266
“This you saw as possible when Gabriel returned to My Presence.”
267 “And My Son carries My Presence inside him always.”
268 “Glory to our Lord Jehovah,” Isaiah praised. 269 “And glory
to His Son, Jeshuah!”
270 “All true,” said the Lord Jehovah. 271 “Go, spread this
Good News to the people on Earth.” 272 The Lord Jehovah instructs
Isaiah, “Tell all Creation there is no more death.” 273 “The
path to Sheol will be closed, for this is the way demons had escaped
their imprisonment.” 274 “I will increase the gulf between Earth
and Sheol and make the way impassable again.” 275 And so the dead
who were righteous in life will replenish My Heavenly Host.” 276
“Or they will join My Son on Earth; for mankind was gifted a
freedom of choice.”
277 “Once My Son, Jeshuah, has cleansed the Heavens of demons, He
will rule the Earth, for I had created Earth for Him.” 278 The
Lord Jehovah tells Isaiah, “I, too, your Creator, will move closer
toward My Creation; for the War for the Heavens and the Earth drove
us apart.” 279 “I will make the Sphere of Crescents as the Sphere
of Mars in memory of Her.” 280 “But this will not be known, for
this place will be forbidden to go.” 281 “And all the Spheres
above Zion will be forbidden, too.” 282 “Go now, Isaiah.” 283
“Gabriel will take you back to Earth and remain for the coming of
my Son.”
284 The Lord Jehovah warns the returning prophet Isaiah, “You have
three days on Earth to announce the Good News.” 285 “I will then
call you back to the Heavens, for there is a seraphim at the Gate of
Jupiter I will not trust.” 286 “This will be your station.” 287
“And you will be in the company of only the righteous and angels
who have been given no choice.”
288 Isaiah replies, “But… My Lord.”
END
Matthew Sawyer (aka Mr. Binger)
Read more stories from the author!
His ebooks are available at www.smashwords.com/profile/view/isylumn
His printed books are available for purchase from
www.lulu.com/spotlight/Isylumn

 

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More of the Mortui Philosophies

June 18, 2018

 

 Mortui Philosophies

“The spawned element,
Rudra*,  consumed
The Living Darkness”

“Rudra uncovered the Light
Rudra gave the Darkness
To his Mother and Father
This was a gift.”

“These elements consumed
All the Darkness.
And gave birth to life.”

“The Elements gave
Life to us.”

“Then the Darkness was gone.
And our Mother and Father
Consumed their children.”

“The elements then birthed
Monsters.”

The Mortui Philosophies
The sketchbooks of the author
Matthew Sawyer

(BTW- that is Rudra’s brother, Awaran, who is speaking)

Images and music composed by Matthew Sawyer
All rights reserved

The horrible fiction of Matthew Sawyer is available for purchase from Lulu.com

Ebooks available from Smashwords.com

 

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Once Gramps Had Come – A Christmas Story

December 19, 2015

An essential piece of Christmas has been missing forever, almost as if it has hidden itself. In the story Once Gramps Had Come by Matthew Sawyer, that hidden piece comes out to perhaps breathe clean air, eat or maybe stretch its legs. Whatever is done, this short tale starts in a Nursing Home. A homely man who calls himself “Gramps” offers immortality and the holidays are coming up.

Once Gramps Had Come by Matthew Sawyer

Once Gramps Had Come
Matthew Sawyer

Thursday, November 21, an ugly, old man comes to the Nursing Home. He is not the slightest seemly; not handsome like the weathering of a familiar leather jacket, nor noble like the bark of a gnarled oak. The man is ugly. Frightening, yet he looks a lot like that knotted tree and ragged hide coat. Presumably present for the terminal long-duration care and rehabilitation available here at Nueva Buena Vista, the terrible creature introduces himself to other residents. He calls himself, “Gramps.”

Mr. Breckell, who regularly assesses his own hearing, believes he has misheard the name. He shouts from his seat of padded linoleum. “What did you call yourself? Cramps?”

Mr. Breckell assumes and also asks, “Is that what’s wrong with you?”

The ugly old man lumbers near the only fellow whose spoken to him. This Gramps or cramps sits down on the stiff, yellow cushion next to Mr. Breckell. The new old man creaks and his joints crack when he bends his legs then he adjusts his seat. The racket is disquieting to everyone in the day-room. Mr. Breckell tells the creepy, wooden man next to him, “You sound like you’re going to break.”

“I do fear it,” Gramps answers.

Before he forgets, Mr. Breckell asks him again, “What did you call yourself?”

“Cramps,” Mr. Breckell swears he’s heard again.

He suggests to the badly weatherworn stranger, “Cramps, I would change that nickname. You could then go talk to someone else.”

“I think you are mispronouncing it,” Gramps tells him.

“Me? How about you?”

Gramps, or still possibly cramps, immediately interrupts the fresh argument. “Are you afraid of dying, Mister…”

“Breckell,” Mr. Breckell automatically replies.

“Sure,” he then insists. “Yeah-”

“I can help you live forever.”

Mr. Breckell finishes his thought. “But I get less fidgety the older I get.”

He then pauses, gazes into impossibly seeing and dense cataracts then tells cramps, “I don’t think you can help yourself. By the look of you…”

Mr. Breckell shakes his balding head.

“I know the worst of it,” Gramps promises his indignant comrade. “You can help me.”

The idea makes Mr. Breckell chuckle. “I will see what I can do.”

With yet no response, he asks the ugly stranger directly, “Who are you?”

“Everyone has forgotten me.”

Mr. Breckell tells him, “Welcome to Anonymous-Anonymous. The ladies across the room cry about the fact at weekly meetings.”

Gramps adds, “And any who do remember me, and if they still believe, they think I have gotten lazy over centuries.”

Mr. Breckell assures him. “That’s just how it feels.”

Pink light glows behind the opaque eyes of the stranger. “I’m telling you, Mr. Breckell, there is another way. You can live forever.”

Mr. Breckell laughs and the sound grows. He stops his guffaw when Gramps admits, “But there is a horrible exaction. There are crimes you must commit.”

“Go figure,” Mr. Breckell says entertained and newly curious. A meager rush of adrenaline reminds him of the shadow of being a young man and alive. Enthused that little bit, he grins and banters. “What evil things must I do. How many children do I need to eat?”

“The children are never eaten,” Gramps declares.

Mr. Breckell tells him, “Then that explains why you’re so scrawny. Tell me, mister, who are you?”

“I told you.”

“Oh, no you don’t. I am not about to wake up tomorrow and remember my name is Al Z’heimers. Who are you?”

The ugly stranger next to Mr. Breckell tells him, “The Krampus. The, the Krampus.”

“Huh?” Mr. Breckell grunts without purpose. His recollection is vague. He goes on and says, “Remind me who that is. Are we talking about Christmas? The elves and the magical Saint Nick, right? Not the Jesus and Christian Santa Claus, correct?”

“And not the American who drinks Coca Cola,” specifies the Krampus.

The name, or its shaded memory, fits the horrid personification here in the ugly stranger. The monster tells Mr. Breckell, “I am his nemesis, his companion and cohort. The folklore all across the world will tell you the same.”

The Krampus rants. “But I refuse to do his work. I won’t do it and I only want to pass away – and join our brothers. Somebody else can be remembered to be the Krampus. And he or she can be that until the end of time.”

“End of time, you say?” Mr. Breckell repeats. “That’s the part that includes living forever you were talking about?”

“If you do those things you must do.”

“And what does that mean? What do I got to do?”

The Krampus scowls when he says, “Make toys.”

Jokingly, Mr. Breckell answers, “Well, how do we get this operation done? I can live forever and do that.”

“Hell, what are all the toys for?”

The Krampus reveals in earnest, “They are the years of your life. Each toy is a day, you live one day for every toy you make. And you must keep them secret.”

Carried by high spirits, Mr. Breckell continues to play with the ugly man. “That can’t be bad. I suppose I can make seven toys in a day, or make fourteen or even seventy.”

“Saint Nicholas takes them away,” replies the Krampus. “And you will die if you do not have even one made and hidden away. Then, at least, you will live that single day. You can use that time and make a new toy that you can stash away.”

Having never truly stopped, Mr. Breckell laughs aloud once again. “Are you telling me Santa Claus steals your toys.”

The Krampus alludes, “A thief by any name… what would he do if he was ever successful and he murdered me?”

“You are telling me, you can die if Santa takes away all your toys.”

“You will die, Mr. Breckell,” declares the Krampus. “When you become me.”

“Hold on,” Mr. Breckell says and stunts the conversation. “You told me you wanted to retire. What did you say? Pass away. You can do that if you let Santa have all your toys.”

“There is something else you must do,” states the Krampus solemn and cold. “Someone must take your place. Someone else must always be the Krampus or we will never be at peace.”

Unswayed by any prospect this whole week has presented him, Mr. Breckell remains engaged in his lively discussion. “I don’t know about your offer, mister. I heard that Saint Nick character was one tough hombre. You know, burglary is his thing – creeping down chimneys and eating cookies and all.”

An idea occurs to Mr. Breckell. “Hey, I have never seen the jolly old man. I know for a fact my parents put all my presents under the tree. I never heard from you, either. Or were you part of all those pagan parties before the twentieth century? Before my time?”

“I was hidden,” answers the Krampus. “Me and my toys and my workshop have been hidden all your life and longer. Saint Nicholas had no toys to give to good girls and boys.”

Mr. Breckell rambles, “So Santa Claus canceled giving away presents because he couldn’t rip you off…”

“What about his little helpers? Where are his elves?”

The Krampus shakes his head, gasps then sighs. “I am so tired and I cannot bear the things I do. I can no longer bear my guilt.”

Mr. Breckell wonders aloud, “Why? What have you done? You make toys.”

“Listen,” musters the Krampus. He leers into Mr. Breckell’s face. “You can’t just take them – I never did. I gave them warnings. They get two?”

“What are they and who are them?” Mr. Breckell asks. He is not one bit interested in hearing any admonitions.

The Krampus tells him, “The first warning I give is a lump of coal. I put it in their stockings.”

“Are you talking about kids?” indicts Mr. Breckell. “I was just kidding when I mentioned earlier that I was hungry. Certainly no veal.”

The Krampus ignores the man’s comments and he continues speaking. “The second is a bundle of twigs bound together with reed. After that second year, I just come and take them.”

“Where – where to?”

“The North Pole. I hide my workshop there in a cave washed out by ocean waves.”

Certain who they are talking about, Mr. Breckell shouts, “Why?” Not one deaf head in the day-room turns.

The Krampus confesses, “Children can make your toys for you. That’s allowed if you keep them under your control.”

“Slaves?”

“I use a potion brewed from an extract of mistletoe. I mix it into their porridge of ice and snow.”

Mr. Breckell mumbles at a volume hardly overheard. “You brainwash children with poison.”

He then judges aloud the beast by his side. “Inhumane.”

“No, no, the potion makes them happy.”

The Krampus’ speech sounds scrambled.

“Don’t you see? Saint Nicholas has no workshop in the Arctic Circle. He doesn’t have any elves. All of that belongs to me. He takes away my toys and the children who are glad they help the Krampus stay alive.”

“What does Santa do with the kids?”

“I suppose he takes them home. I don’t know, I don’t know… I don’t care.”

Mr. Breckell says proud, “It’s good to know he is still a good man.”

“Is he?” cries the Krampus. “Is he, Mr. Breckell? The Sinter Klass hunts us, sir. He will not let our souls rest and he only wants to keep us desperate. We are forced to desperately make toys to stay alive.”

“Hold on,” Mr. Breckell states and mimes as if he physically pulls in an equine’s reins. “Who are you talking about when you mention ‘we’? Certainly not you and me.”

“There is only now you,” replies the Krampus.

“What do mean?”

The gnarled creature tells the man, “Mr. Breckell, you agreed to take my place.”

“No,” Mr. Breckell objects. He has stopped laughing. “How did that happen?”

“Because you spoke to me.”

****

The nursing home vanishes from all around Mr. Breckell. The Krampus goes, too. Rather, old Mr. Breckell has himself gone. The elderly man discovers he is alone atop snow and an iceberg larger than his poor eyesight might measure. He shivers only a little because the air and ground are both cold. Mr. Breckell does not already know it, him standing outside fully dressed overlain with his nursing home bathrobe, but for some inexplicable reason the man is lucky he is not shaking more. Foremost in his audible mind is, “I have been teleported to the North Pole.”

“The dirty scoundrel,” grumbles Mr. Breckell. “What am I going to do now?”

He recognizes a scraggy voice whispering from out of his own ears. The voice of the original Krampus tells him, “Watch out for Saint Nick. Your brothers are watching you.”

“Hey, get back here,” Mr. Breckell shouts. “Send me back! I didn’t agree to anything.”

As the voice falls further away, Mr. Breckell hears it say, “The souls of your brothers depend on you to keep our peace. Hide. Hide and make toys.”

“Wait a minute,” Mr. Breckell begs the voice before it is gone. After no answer except a frigid gust of wind, one that chills his limbs, he appeals to the overcast sky. “Where am I suppose to go?”

“He said he made a cave,” Mr. Breckell tells himself. As if he knows the direction, he marches toward the ocean side.

Along his solitary journey, he first asks himself, “Who are the brothers?” Further along, Mr. Breckell answers the question.

“I bet it’s you,” he says to himself, meaning the voice he recognized was the Krampus he met tonight in the day room at Nueva Buena Vista.

He chides the Krampus he knew while tramping downhill into deepening snow. “Some wretched fiend looked at you and found a fool to pass a curse onto.”

“That’s what this is, isn’t it?”

The question is rhetorical. The hypothetical answer is, too. “Some eternal life this is, I tell you.”

A gunshot makes his insane reality legitimate. A bullet immediately blows snow and steam from a hole made into a snow drift concealing most of his thin and aged body. Hidden so, he has avoided injury.

“I got you,” declares a hoarse old man with yet a jolly shout. “I found you. Where are your toys?”

Mr. Breckell says without hunting the horizon for the shooter, “Santa Claus, is that you?”

A skinny man wearing a long gray beard and longer, hairy, green coat shouts back. “I’m Ole Nick, to you. Ho.”

Ole Nick pauses and asks the rookie Krampus, “You’re a new Krampus aren’t you? ‘Course, I haven’t seen you for over a hundred years. And I’ve been looking. I promise you that. I guess I’m just lucky everybody hasn’t forgotten about me.”

The stretched elf laughs aloud. “Ho, ho, ho,” then he fires a shot into the air. An AK-47 then swings over his head once more and unleashes a burst that drowns speech.

Dropping the weapon, Ole Nick tells the new Krampus, “I said, Christmas is coming this year. Show me where you’ve hidden all your toys.”

“I don’t know,” pleads Mr. Breckell. Challenging the safety of his snowdrift, he raises his head and looks over his shoulder. Saint Nicholas comes up behind him, following his target’s fathom-deep foot prints.

“I am feeling charitable all of a sudden,” promises Santa Claus, “I’ll give your a break because you’re so brand new. Look at you – your wrinkles haven’t yet turned into bark. Give me all your toys and I’ll let you live this year – well, at least until Spring.”

“You’re going to kill me?” asks the unbelieving remnant of Mr. Breckell.

Ole Nick grows serious. “You, your kind and your undead hive mind are an abomination.” He spits. “Ptah, you all-in-one and everlasting…”

“The Krampus is a dreg of Creation, the root of jealous anxiety. You don’t feel it yet, but you will quick enough. I exist to clean you up.”

The human that yet survives claims, “This is crazy. Please, let me go. Take all my toys. Please, just allow me to make more.”

“Your type of immortality is a mad idea,” judges Santa Claus. “Well, I’m the balance. You must die – after Christmas this year is sorted out”

The Krampus stammers. “Just take my toys, leave me in peace.”

“I will rescue the kids, too,” Ole Saint Nick pledges.

“What kids?”

“The ones you hypnotize and they make all your toys.”

The Mr. Breckell inside the Krampus tells Santa, “Take them. I’ll make my own toys.”

Ole Nick chuckles. “And just like all your brothers, you will be disappointed to find you can’t keep up.”

Mr. Breckell asks even though he sort of knows, “Who are my brothers?”

He is ignored. Instead, Ole Nick waves a rifle into his face and commands him, “Show me your toys.”

“Yes, yes,” replies the Krampus. He then takes Saint Nicholas to his lair.

The entrance to the ice cave is near. Truly, the two eternal spirits have almost always shuffled through snow over the length of saltwater carved caverns. Having arrived at the cave mouth, the Krampus points toward the dark hole. Uncertain of the intention of the man with the gun, he invites Saint Nicholas inside using only a nod and an arm gesture.

“There is candlelight inside,” promises the Krampus and Mr. Breckell knew.

“You go first,” Santa responds. “I’m right behind you and I’ve got an automatic weapon pointed at the center of your back.”

Before either spirit steps further toward the underground, gaunt and pale children fizz out of the hole as if they were bubbles jumped from a boiling cauldron. All of them smile. They shout in song, “The Krampus!” Apparently impervious to the freezing cold, the skinny kids banter with each other in the snow wearing only pajamas and slippers.

“He doesn’t look like the Krampus,” one boy observes.

A smaller girl tells him, “He smells like the Krampus.”

And the boy replies, “He doesn’t look like him.”

“He will look like one in a hundred years,” another child answers.

Boggled, Saint Nick wonders rhetorically, “What poison?”

Ashamed because of this evidence left by a guilty brother who had come before him, the one who had been Mr. Breckell claims, “I’m sorry – it wasn’t me.”

“You will commit this same crime one day soon. You always do,” Santa retorts. “I’ll be back and shoot you. You can join your brothers… and there will always be another one like you. There has always been.”

Although the children are reluctant, Saint Nicholas gathers them together and puts all the boys and girls the Krampus has kidnapped behind him. He tells the Krampus, “You can make as many toys as you want until then… enough for next Christmas, I expect.”

“You want the toys for Christmas?” reiterates the desperate Krampus. “But they are the days of my life… I’m sure we can work something out.”

The inconceivable notion brings another, “Ho, ho, ho,” from Ole Nick.

“Give me your toys,” Santa Claus orders the Krampus with no condition or exception.

“Please,” the Krampus begs Ole Nick while the children go directed back into the cave to haul out all the unwrapped Christmas presents.

Santa salutes the Krampus, “I loathe your kind – that is just the nature of Creation. Because of you, it has been a hundred years since the world has truly seen what Christmas was meant to be.”

The Krampus presents a feeble defense before the dangerous elf goes away. He says, “Is Christmas all about gifts? Toys that are better made to save the life of a man?”

“You are not a man,” answers Ole Nick.

Near sundown, after a day that seemed to last months, Saint Nicholas tells the Krampus, “I’ll be back before sundown to clear out the rest of your lair. Merry Christmas – you better be gone by then.”

Confused and having nothing sensible to say, the Krampus who had once been Mr. Breckell watches Ole Nick go. The tall, green elf presses the rear of his caravan of gift-bearing slave children. Establishing distance between them and their slaver, Santa Claus calls back to the Krampus from across tundra. “You’re going to die… I’ll kill you myself.”

You can’t hide forever. – you will come out and find another…”

“Even before that, you’ll start collecting slaves…”

“Then I will find you again.”

“You better get those toys made!”

****

After the once been Mr. Breckell finds the recipe for mistletoe poison, and he’s discovered a new lair for his toy workshop, the following news is broadcasted on Christmas day. While half of the United States still awaits dawn, WSIN television newswoman Sue Niam reports in an urgent voice,

“How do I describe it? These worldwide incidents of the opposite of breaking-and-entering are simply pandemic. Homes all over the globe – the United States, Russia, China, the United Kingdom and even Israel – everywhere – have seemingly been forcibly entered by persons who resemble the sixteenth century Father Christmas.”

“Father Christmas is the Jenny Craig Santa Claus who wears green instead of red. Viewers are probably most familiar with him as the Ghost of Christmas Present in the Charles Dickens story A Christmas Carol.”

Ms. Niam pauses on-air live and she asks an off-camera someone, “Is this a hoax?”

The preened television personality then continues describing, “Images and videos captured all over the world portray a single identical intruder in all these incidents – intruder is not the word for him – because he leaves wrapped presents then disappears”

Her cameraman is told, “Charlie, this is one man. How can one man appear at once in millions of homes?”

The response from the cameraman is loud enough to register on the recording. “I hate wrapping presents.”

“Hold on,” Ms. Niam tells Charlie and her viewing audience. “Reports are coming in saying the intruder carries an automatic military firearm. Our Santa Claus is shooting pets.”

After a moment spent quietly listening to her earphone, Sue Niam tells her audience, “Gunfire has been exchanged… witnesses have reported skirmishes between the intruder and armed homeowners”

Interrupting herself, she states, “We have a caller from Arizona.”

“Hello, Mister Rood? You said you exchanged gunfire with the man dressed as Father Christmas.”

“I sure did.”

Eager to curb the mania in her caller’s voice, Ms. Niam says, “We’re just now learning about the hundreds of incidents. These armed encounters seem focused in the Western half of the world.”

“America!” rallies Mr. Rood. “Damn, yeah.”

Ms. Niam cautions the man from Arizona. “Please, language, Mr. Rood. And it is Christmas Day.”

Mr. Rood grumbles, “Libtards.”

Refocusing the report, Ms. Niam asks her caller, “Can you tell us what happened to you this morning?”

“Yeah, sure,” Mr. Rood grants with heavy breaths. “I heard that sucker rattling my front door at four AM. I don’t go work at Walmart until six fifteen so I heard what was going on.”

The caller raises his voice.

“He come in my house with the ‘Ho, ho, ho’ and touting his rifle. Well, I brought mine.”

Interested in summarizing the witness, the television reporter asks, “How was the gunfire initiated?”

Yelling because of adrenaline, “I shot first – the man was in my home. He shot at me but I think I got him. All the authorities got to do is follow the blood trail. That’s red enough for Christmas for you all.”

– End –

If you liked my story, the least you can do for me is send me a Christmas card. You can do that by buying this story on Smashwords. Merry Holidays (how does that sound?).

– Matthew Sawyer

h1

Clara is Dead! Long Live Clara! – Doctor Who fan fiction

August 19, 2014

Clara is Dead! Long Live Clara!

I like Jenna-Louise Coleman. I think her acting in the BBC television series Doctor Who is worthwhile Sci-Fi. But honestly, her character, Clara Oswald, sucks. Steven Moffat never really developed a good backstory for the character. And with season eight of the 2005 reboot of the languishing program soon airing worldwide, it is obvious the man stopped trying. So be it. One has to let eggs drop so that more might be saved. Alas, I believe the actress herself is worth salvage. Give Ms. Coleman a new role on the show, I propose. Bring back a favorite face, I dare say. I mean a rewarding character. I elect Romanadvoratrelundar, the Time Lady from Gallifrey. Jenna rejoins Peter Capaldi on Doctor Who in this exciting new role.

Clara is Dead! Long Live Clara! is a fictional story. Doctor Who and the characters in this story are properties of Doctor Who. I submit this tale as a fan for fans of the Doctor Who television series.

Clara is Dead! Long Live Clara! by Matthew Sawyer is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. Please contact the author for permissions beyond the scope of this license.

Clara is Dead! Long Live Clara!

Matthew Sawyer

Clara Oswald has no idea why she stays around. The Doctor is a maniac. He was more considerate when he was a different man. “When he wasn’t so old,” she deliberately thinks.

“Oh,” the Doctor’s companion tells herself aloud. “He’s the same Time Lord. His face has changed….”

The TARDIS is jolted and the young woman grabs a safety rail inside the console room. She is then prompt and complains. “And his whole personality, that’s all.”

The perturbed young lady tells the Doctor on the other side of the console, “You were more considerate before. A gentleman. Slow down. Let me rest if you’re not tired.”

“I’m never tired,” the Doctor declares and he flips levers on the carousel control board. His time and space ship straightens itself upright.

“I remember,” he shouts and presses a single button repeatedly. “An old friend.”

The incredible machine groans and everyone knows it is about to materialize. Clara grumbles. “Oh, where are we now?”

“Home,” he answers. “My home, Gallifrey.”

“Oh,” Clara chirps suddenly chipper. “Is your friend here?”

She strolls around the console while the Doctor remains hunched and attached to its switches and dials. The young woman teases the fixed pilot. “Why else come home?”

The Doctor sounds sarcastic when he tells her, “I don’t know. It’s been about six hundred years since I’ve seen her last and I guess sometimes I wonder how she is getting on.”

“What’s her name?” Clara asks and bites her lower lip.

“Romana.”

“I’d like to see her.”

“You will,” he replies in a raised voice. “Get out. Take a look – there’s a light flashing on the console.”

Clara stops mid-step toward the time machine’s exit door. “What is it?”

“Parking authority,” he scoffs. “Evidently, I can’t park here. I’ve got to go somewhere else.”

The Doctor’s female companion stays paused near the door. “I’ll come with you.”

“No,” demands the Time Lord. “Get out. Go. Clear your head.”

The advice resonates with Clara. His precise phrases make her paranoid, but the errant school teacher has felt so about him since she first met the genius alien. He periodically makes her uneasy. And she feels as if he can read her mind.

“I will,” Clara answers the Doctor. “If it’s okay with you.”

“Go, get out, look around. I’ll be right back. I’ll meet you here.”

She cracks wise. “When?”

“Eh…”

The moment she opens the exit door, shouts come in from outside. “Take this junk to the shipyard or we’ll ship it to the junkyard. You can’t bring it here, take it to the spatially-bound staging lots.”

The TARDIS dematerializes leaving Clara alone outside the time machine. The abandoned companion sees she’s been left in a strange cathedral, a wild exaggeration with an impossibly high ceiling. The enormous walls appear made of balsa slats and paper panes – like those found in medieval Japanese noble homes.

Silly soldiers dressed in shining and ornate plastic armor tinted red come and meet Clara Oswald here in this spacious antechamber. She tells the dispatch there with their crystal pistols, “I’m with someone. He’s coming back.”

“Is he?” an ancient woman asks her. The question is sincere.

“Sure,” Clara affirms for her own good. “The Doctor has to park the TARDIS. That’s his name, the Doctor.”

She mumbles, “It’s still him,” then says aloud, “He’s meeting me here.”

“Clara?” asks the older woman while she approaches the young companion.

Clara wonders, “How did you know?”

She remembers her suspicion about the Doctor and she assumes everyone of his race all have telepathy. He does read her mind, he has the whole time. Her human brain is stuck contemplating how she can cope being someplace where everyone knows her thoughts. Clara stands chewing her lower lip and knitting her brow until the other woman interrupts her morass.

“I’m Romana.”

“Oh.” Clara wipes her hands before taking that of the hostess. “I am Clara Oswald. I haven’t actually known him that long – the Doctor that is.”

“Well, you have,” Romana tells her. The mysterious deepens when she says, “But that is another story.”

“I’ve known the Doctor for centuries,” the worn Time Lady informs the ripe companion. “I was assigned to keep an eye on him.”

“Oh,” Clara states unsurprised.

Romana clarifies, “He was in a different reincarnation…”

“I know how that goes,” Clara blurts.

Romana finishes. “A long time ago.”

The companion promises the old companion and nanny, “You won’t recognize him now. He’s regenerated again.”

“I know,” Romana tells Clara. “It was big news on Gallifrey, unprecedented. The Doctor had been so wasteful with his lives.”

“That hasn’t changed,” Clara gripes. She talks about herself. Inside, she admits she has witnessed his tremendous sacrifices. The man was a hero and she feels guilty about her distrusting him.

“Thank you, Clara,” Romana tells the human. “Time Lords live so long, we forgot how precious life is. You helped the council remember how appreciation feels. Your words were a gift to awaken the dead.”

“Thanks?” Clara wonders.

“Let’s go to Borusa’s old office,” Romana suggests. “I’m about to have it remodeled but mine has just been started. I was going to take the day off, but by now you probably know about Time Lords. We are a restless bunch – that’s why there are laws against our intervention. I had to stay busy.”

Clara agrees with as much as she is able to relate with. “You’re telling me. Whew.”

Romana’s red escort marches away while the two women walk the opposite direction. The Time Lady leads the way by one step ahead of the unattended companion.

“Who?” Clara also inquires. “Borusa?”

“He was the Doctor’s former teacher. The man walked a controversial path, like everyone our mutual friend knows.”

“Mine is pretty straight,” opines the human woman. “I think.”

“Examine your company,” Romana reminds her.

“I’m not judgmental,” Clara assures herself aloud.

“Come to think of it, I believe I’ve met you before,” Romana tells the other woman nonchalant while she pushes open a pair of great leaden doors. A bomb then explodes from inside the room behind the loose slag-marked slabs. Both Clara and Romana die when the tiny women are crushed.

Romana then awakes with a new face. Indeed, her whole body has changed. She is a new woman with the same name. The Time Lady is proud because the fact. She praises a planet as she gets up and on her feet. “Thank you, Karn.”

Appreciation for the Sisterhood’s Art swells both of Romana’s hearts. Regeneration is erratic without the knowledge of their spiritual methods and practice. Without their help, she would have been confused. Their miraculous elixir would have been ideal but the Time Lady was reborn into the form she visualized. Romana had seen another hero while she floated in her lucid dream of death.

The Doctor then finally arrives one more time.

“Clara,” he shouts. “What happened? You look all right. Dirty, but yeah-uh…”

“Thank you for noticing,” Romana responds. “Uh-hem, it’s nice to see you too.”

“Is someone dead?” the Doctor yells. The Time Lord drags his foot against the ceramic while red armored soldiers come and investigate the explosion from Borusa’s old office. More red comes scraped from the sole of his boot.

“Yes,” Romana reports. “I was telling your companion about the disease we Time Lords suffer because we live so long over and over again. Our apathy.”

The Doctor mentions, “It’s because of all your rules.”

A pall then falls over the Doctor’s anxious expression. “What?”

Romana mentions, “I’m sorry, Doctor. Clara is dead.”

“No,” he groans. No one is certain what the man denies.

He implies a thousand questions when he asks the air, “Who?”

“I’m Romana,” she tells him. “I was here when she was killed. We both were – I lost a life.”

“Sabotage, my lady,” a soldier tells the Time Lady before he goes back to investigating.

Romana and the Doctor face each other widemouthed and overhear another soldier identify, “Sontaran.”

“You look different,” she mentions to him out of hand before the Doctor shouts, “I wasn’t here. I didn’t see this, I can fix this.”

“Doctor,” Romana begs. She follows him when he spins around and runs the length of the Citadel cathedral. She shouts while she pursues her longtime friend. “I think I know what you’re doing. Your sense of boundaries got you in trouble during your last set of regenerations, don’t waste your new lives.”

“It’s what I do,” he yells when they arrive together at his TARDIS. “I save people.”

His new self and the newer Romana jump into the time machine, which then disappears. The sound the TARDIS makes as it vanishes is especially tedious this trip. Its noise is even more tired when the machine reappears nowhere else except back a small hop in time. Although, from a perspective inside the TARDIS, that same time is frozen. It’s stopped in the past.

The Doctor and Romana save minutes while an impromptu, prolonged discussion first interrupts then delays Clara’s impractical rescue. The Time Lord is angry. He shouts at the fresh disguise of his old companion. “Why her? Why would you look like her?

The Doctor then immediately apologizes as he always has. “What I mean is…”

“It’s terribly swell to see you again, Romana. You’re one of my favorite people. I’m happy for your change, but you look like her because Clara died. How can you do that? Change back.”

“I came back to Gallifrey just to see your face. Wash-up, for goodness sake. You’re covered in ash. And is that a scab of blood?”

“Thank you, Doctor, but no,” she tells him. “I looked like I was about to topple over. Clara was a pretty girl – and fit. You’ve always like the athletics ones.”

“You did this last time,” he grumbles. A critical point then occurs to the Doctor. He reminds Romana, “Hey, they were people, human beings,”

“They weren’t Time Lords,” she retorts.

The Doctor argues. “They were still important.”

Romana confesses, “Clara still is a hero to the people of Gallifrey.”

“So you take her face?” he snorts.

“Why not? She’s been fashionable all year.”

“I think all of you have confused memorial for fashion,” the Doctor judges. “I’m happy I don’t stay here.”

“Perhaps,” concludes Romana. Her changing the topic is abrupt. “Doctor, the officer said it was the Sontarans.”

Happy the conversation now moves at a speed he is accustomed with, the Doctor replies, “I heard.”

Resentment deep in her belly compels Romana to elaborate. “They invaded our home planet after you were made president.”

“That was hardly my fault.”

“You abdicated your position after you vanished and didn’t come back.”

The Doctor argues, “I came back.”

“You were summoned, again.”

“Humph.”

He is grumpy, but his old companion has heard him act this way before and most of the time. She ignores his mood – one she knows he probably pretends – and Romana reminds him, “I think they hid a bomb in Borusa’s office when you on Gallifrey with that jungle girl. I saw the recordings in the Matrix.”

The Doctor grins. “Yes, Leela. Show some respect.”

He suddenly acts outraged. “Is that what this is all about?”

“You threw her into the wastelands.”

“For her own good.”

“Listen, Doctor,” Romana commands. “How far back in time have we come? Do you have a plan?”

“Do you?” he asks her, embarrassingly open to ideas. “I remember when Commander Stor had access to Borusa’s room. We’re here then.”

“That was an awfully long time ago.”

“I know.”

Romana calculates, “I think the bomb was set to go off when a sensor detected your DNA.”

“You think?” the Doctor answers as if he casts blame. “What about Clara? She’s the one who is dead.”

The Time Lady stays calm. “Obviously, a little of you had worn off on the girl.”

The Doctor is humbled and he states, “Right.”

Fiddling with controls on the TARDIS console, he tells Romana, “I suppose that’s the reason I didn’t come back on my free will; mysterious forces, hooey and all. Let’s not talk about it and let’s just rescue the girl.”

“Are you going to stop him, Commander Stor?” she wonders. “Aren’t you worried about causing a Paradox? I won’t look like this.”

“Good,” he replies.

“Time starts over when you open the TARDIS door. You don’t want to do anything bad.”

His tone is firm when he tells Romana, “Paradox? Nooo…”

“Doctor…”

He stomps his foot. “Someone I know died.”

Romana never relents. “Well, what are you going to do?”

The Doctor blows air up his nostril. “Well, considering the time…”

“Don’t be fallacious.”

“I’m not that,” he replies radiant with mischief.

“You haven’t changed, Doctor,” Romana grants the man. “You never will.”

She looks at herself. “Wait, I suppose Clara brought some of her clothes on board. I assume she came with you in the TARDIS. Let me change before we go outside.”

The Doctor frowns, points down an unfamiliar hallway and says nothing. Romana does not try to understand and she goes the way her old friend has directed.

“Good,” he eventually says after she has left the console room. The Doctor shouts, “Put on someone uglier.”

“What do you mean?” Romana calls from anywhere in the bowels or rafters of the time machine.

The Time Lord waves his hand from where he pauses near the exit of his marvelous spacecraft. “Pff.”

Once he never verbalizes his expression, Romana asks the Doctor from outside the room, “Do you want me to bring you a tie? I noticed you weren’t wearing one.”

“No,” he yells.

She informs no one when she ponders aloud, “I’m not going outside. I don’t want to meet myself. I am sure I was in the Citadel the day of your coronation.”

The Time Lady walks back into the console room wearing a blue summer dress. Her pale thighs are largely exposed and tinted cool shades reflected off the borrowed garment. “How do I look?”

She asks nobody. The Doctor had left Romana alone in the TARDIS with no one to talk with. She now stomps her red sandshoe and searches for a clue as to what her old friend is up to now.

“Oh,” she complains. “He’s moved everything around, like I didn’t expect that. They’ll all be different tomorrow.”

“Darn him.”

The same time she curses, Romana finds an external monitor. The Doctor had steered the flat screen’s vista toward vestibules run from the big antechamber. Borusa’s old office is located there. Watching for her friend, Romana notices the decoration.

“Wait,” she desperately mentally projects to the Doctor. She can’t know if he receives her message only because they’ve been separated so long.

Nevertheless, she thinks loud. “Look at the ornaments, Doctor. Look out a window. We landed on the wrong coordinates. We never went back in time.”

She criticizes his shadow when it appears on the view screen. “You’re no better at flying the TARDIS than I remember.”

The lead doors of Borusa’s office are closed and the previous she and Clara are nowhere in sight. Romana is grateful she and the Doctor are early. She contemplates the bomb.

“Doctor, where is your head?” She scowls when his image appears on the viewer. “Don’t you remember? The explosive is triggered by your DNA.”

“I’ve got to warn him,” she urges herself. “This is such an unnecessary waste of a life.”

Yet in the guise of Clara Oswald, Romana dashes from the sanctuary of the time machine and goes searching for the Doctor. She must warn him not to open Borusa’s office.

“Doctor,” she shouts.

Romana hears her new self say, “That sounded like me.”

The Time Lady turns around and meets a living Clara. She and her doppelganger are yet dozens of meters away from each other, but the two identical woman do find the eyes of the other. The Doctor is also there. And he is too far away. He is safe from what is about to happen, and the Time Lord can’t get close in time to help.

The old Romana opens a lead door and the room inside explodes.

The next Romana watches herself die. Before her body regenerates, her future incarnation sees she is dead. The Time Lady realizes that moment she wastes her life. She looks at the Doctor standing agape in front of her.

“Well, I’m about to get here,” are the only words he will utter. Romana follows her friend back to the TARDIS. She grills him only when they are alone together inside the time machine.

“Are you satisfied? You only made a horrible event more set in stone.”

“You still need someone looking over your shoulder,” she admits to her companion. “Someone who knows what she is doing. I’m coming with you. We’ll go do something anybody can do for your dead friend. We’ll go to Earth.”

The Time Lady drives the Doctor’s time machine without a sound. During the flight through space and time, Romana wonders, “Clara was that little girl we met together on Earth. It was Christmas time, is that right?”

The Doctor nods his head. His face appears fallen and dull but Romana might swear she sees him glow when she speaks to her friend. She continues talking to him.

“That was quite a while ago – and you still traveled with her? Hold on, she is the Impossible Girl. I remember her story, it’s why Gallifrey is in love with her beyond what is simply popular.”

“Say,” ponders the Time Lady. “She constantly pops up through time and saves your life.”

“Fragments,” growls the Doctor.

Romana tries to sound convincing. “You might see her again. Or are you two done? Was that it?”

“I’m only curious,” Romana mutters in silence after she realizes she has mentioned too much.

She asks the brooding Doctor, “Is she done?”

“Apparently not,” he answers after she asks him again. He looks directly into the face of his companion.

The Time Lord pledges, “I’m going to fix this.”

“Not alone,” Romana tells him.

“We will think about the solution first and take our time. Did you forget, Doctor? You always do. Time is on our side. That is our luxury.”

The Time Lady smiles wide enough for the both of them. “And we’re together again. Let’s remind ourselves what it is like to be alive.”

– END –

Read more of Matthew Sawyer’s Doctor Who fan fiction at Smashwords.

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Monster, Monster

August 17, 2014

Monster, Monster
Mr. Binger

“Monster, monster,” a homeless man cried all night. In the day, he shouts at people, “Keep away.”

I am there at a pharmacy where outside the man squats in tattered tan trousers atop a flat, overworked cardboard mat. I’m too intimated and won’t ask him questions, but three identical kids do interrogate him.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m a monster.”

He thinks he’s been coy afterward because of the reply. Bloody, un-brushed teeth flash from inside a nettle of black whiskers.

The mother of the children calls off her offspring.

The family had a dog, too, and now that is gone. The animal never barked but I did spot a small mutt on a leash. I watched it tangle itself in the tether. That same leash now lies loose on the concrete sidewalk.

“Where’s Princess?” the mother asks her kids.

They tell her simultaneously, “I don’t know.”

“She belongs to you,” the mother reminds her children. “You’re suppose to take care of your animals.”

“I’m a monster,” shouts the homeless man.

The family has moved away from him and into the parking lot – and the homeless man did not address specifically them – but he sounded as if he was next to us. I paused near the fleeing family when the man’s voice sounded as if it came from the very ground beneath us.

“The bum got her,” explains the smallest of the family. He is a thin boy. His hair is also lightest. And in this guise of simple innocence, he states, “He told me his name was Mister Gobblings.”

The middle child, an equanimous brunette girl, shouts back a question for the homeless man.

“Are you a troll?”

The shocked mother quizzes the littlest kid, “You talked to him?”

The woman does not wait for an answer and instead flails at the oldest, another girl. “Were you watching your brother?”

“I was with her,” states the tallest and darkest of the children. A sharp thumb spears in the direction of her smaller sister.

Both feel the same responsibility for their little brother – a disappointment in themselves is plain on their transparent faces. Their mother acts the opposite and she looks ridiculous in her outrage.

“Well, we’re lucky the homeless man didn’t eat your little brother, too.”

The oldest child begs, “Mom…”

Her mother answers, “You heard what he calls himself.”

“Mister Gobblings,” repeats the youngest.

The homeless man yells again, “I’m a monster.”

The words make me jump.

My own shock disorients me.

Once I have recomposed enough of my awareness, I recognize I eavesdrop on the family’s conversation in the pharmacy parking lot. I avert my attention. The woman’s voice lingers in the air and I recall I heard her call for help.

“Hello, police?”

She uses a mobile phone, I saw so before I turned away my face. The rest of her summons occurs out of my range of hearing. Also vanished from my sight, I assume the woman goes away and takes her children somewhere safe and middle class.

“I’m a monster,” shouts the homeless man.

I do not look at him but I do feel certain he does not tell me again. I think he would say the same to me over and over, except other customers enter the pharmacy. Three immature men and an older teenaged girl stop walking before any pass the homeless man.

“What did you say?” growls a gruff young fellow.

Another boy among the three asks the transient, “What’s your name?”

Curious, I approach the encounter. Cautious, I stay quiet and shield my body behind the youngsters. Fast food has ensued me these teenagers provide plenty of cover, even at their early ages. Unfortunately, their extra padding insulates sound and the conversation within their circle remains mostly incomprehensible. The only words I do hear is when the homeless calls himself, “Mister Gobblings.”

The older kids chuckle, I clearly hear them laugh. I watch the older girl who stands between two of the three boys. There were two guys on her left before I glanced at her bouncing bottom, then I look back and I see that she jogs in place with nobody opposite her last male companion on her right.

She screams, “Who are you?”

The homeless man stays hidden from me. I assume the young woman was shouting at him until I hear his reply. The echo of his voice comes from behind me, from further away than a city block but not far.

“Monster, monster.”

The remaining adolescent couple drifts apart and plainly show the self-deprecating transient has gone. They have vanished, too, when cops arrive.

“He’s over there,” I tell the police and point east. “You can hear him calling – it’s a warning. His name is Mister Gobblings.”

“You heard that?” one of two trim female officers asks me after she and her partner exit their squad car. A smile drifts unto her flush cheeks. She clarifies, “I mean, did you hear that from somebody?”

“I heard him say his name,” I tell both police officers.

The second professional woman comments, “Uh-uh, everybody knows you’re not suppose to ask him his name.”

She snickers then her amusement infects the first cop I spoke with.

“I’m just trying to be helpful,” I plea. “I don’t want to get involved, not really.”

“I didn’t make the phone call. I didn’t see anything that’s probably not on camera – look, it’s a pharmacy.”

My gesture toward the roof of the building goes ignored. The first officer tells me, “Sorry. Mister Gobblings is a hoax, an urban myth.”

“Huh?”

“Everybody knows about him. You don’t ask him his name.”

The second brusque lady claims, “If he tells you his name, you’re marked for life.”

Disoriented, I claim, “But the teenagers…”

The second officer interrupts me and states, “That explains everything.”

“He’s gone now,” opines the first.

They both then wish me, “Good day, sir,” and they go into the pharmacy. Outside, I only stammer, “I never asked his name, I only overheard him say…”

-_End=

Gnawing for more? Read more from Mr. Binger and the originally author Matthew Sawyer at Smashwords

 

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These Horrid Tales of Wister Town Still Lives

November 6, 2013

Forsaken a new life, these horrid tales of Wister Town are still breathing and they are available to read online. Though this collection of short horror stories sorely need editing, there they are. I’m not inclined to return to them. I’ve moved on. I’m writing new stories, better tales, stuff someone should pay me for.

Nevertheless, these stories are free to read online – Horrid Tales of Wister Town

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Insight Into Absurd Recesses Of Inspiration

October 12, 2013

Sometime ago in previous posts, I mentioned my sequel to Debbie’s Hellmouth. I call the book The Betulha Dohrman Legacy. Its manuscript is sitting unwrapped with a real publisher – this self-publishing stuff isn’t working for me. I have no clue where I can find a substantive fan-base.

Bitching and whining aside, I found again one my inspirations for a critical event in The Betulha Dohrman Legacy. This tragedy supposedly occurred in Nigeria, although I suspect these mutations are not uncommon. My similar phantasmagoria happens in Southern Wisconsin, outside an evil little place called Wister Town.

Warning, not for the recently fed. View at risk of your own ingestion…

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